


Just as Mates

by Allesfresser



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Friendship, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28676448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allesfresser/pseuds/Allesfresser
Summary: A jockish Gryffindor and a Slytherin loner could never become mates, not in today's political climate.Well, maybe in some alternate universe...
Relationships: Rabastan Lestrange/Sturgis Podmore
Kudos: 1





	Just as Mates

Sturgis _bloody_ Podmore. 

Undesirable No. 1, in Rabastan’s book, anyway. The Ministry would never go after Podmore’s ilk. Gryffindors were exempt from oversight, no matter how prickish, how vulgar, how _insufferable_ … Why, Sturgis Podmore was even worse than James Potter— at least Potter kept his cries for attention limited to the ginger-haired harlot— and that was a major accomplishment. The only Podmore had to tout, thankfully, besides a shelf buckling under the weight of his Quidditch trophies. 

Which meant absolutely _nothing_ , Rab reminded himself as he scowled at the back of the blond’s head that afternoon in Potions. Even if Podmore were good enough at Quidditch to make the League’s cut, he’d be a washed-up, penniless half-blood again in just a few years. Fame was fickle, but blood was forever. 

“Time’s up!” Professor Slughorn called from the front of the room, precisely as the last grain of sand in his golden hourglass filtered to the bottom. Rabastan had put the finishing touches on his Soothing Draught six minutes ago. Sturgis, on the other hand, was hastily pouring half the contents of his partner’s cauldron into his own, while the infatuated girl only giggled under her palm. _Idiots_. All it took was a pretty face to advance in the world, not actual talent. 

“Well done, as usual, Mr. Lestrange,” Slughorn complimented, clapping an unwelcome hand on the Slytherin’s back as he circled his class. Rab bristled. He didn’t need a blustering has-been’s praise to know that he was a natural at potion-making, _thank you very much_ . Slughorn’s attention quickly wandered, of course; however pure-blooded and talented Rabastan was, he was still second-born. An afterthought. _The spare._

“Your cauldron should be full to the brim, Mr. Podmore,” Slughorn was saying, voice rich with amused suspicion as he heaved his tweed trousers back over his waist.

“Spilt a bit, Professor,” the Gryffindor dismissed nonchalantly, already sweeping up his ingredients, which were so obviously untouched. Podmore’s timbre carried such natural confidence… It was infuriating, exactly the kind of voice that made knees weak. 

Slughorn’s green-gray eyes twinkled; he chortled, walrus mustache rippling. “Very well, then, Podmore… Full points for cheek.” 

_Insufferable._

The bell chimed, and at once the room was roaring with careless chatter and the scraping of stools. Rabastan, all too focused on the straw-colored curls three desks ahead, had neglected to clean up. Dark brows furrowed, he began packing unused Knarl quills into a box. Quite quickly, the tumult subsided to a low hum as the classroom emptied. No one was eager to stay in the dungeons, not in October, with drafts like these; even Professor Slughorn bustled hastily from the room, tugging his jacket more tightly around his paunch and muttering something about the water closet. Personally, Rab was more concerned with the putrid aura Podmore gave off than the cold. 

“Hey, Ophelia, wait up.” 

_Shit._ Rabastan began to stuff anything and everything on his desk into his schoolbag, knowing what he was about to overhear and very much dreading it. He felt heat suffuse his cheeks and knew they were turning an unflattering shade of rose. Curse his pallor.

“I’m going to Hogsmeade next weekend.” Rab could never imagine talking to a girl— well, he didn’t like girls, but that was beside the point— _a crush, then_ , so brazenly. Podmore’s voice didn’t even lilt. “Would you like to—” 

Rabastan whimpered like a puppy. One of the Knarl quills had snapped under his grasp, incising a long slit across his palm. He hadn’t realized his grip was so taut. 

“Whoa.” Sturgis had turned, distracted from a girl. That had to be a first. Rab’s dark eyes chanced upward, connecting with the bright, cornflower blue of the other for a split second before he _had_ to look back down, cowed. It wasn’t that Podmore was glaring at him— quite the opposite. Those light irises had been filled with mild surprise and growing, earnest concern. Only, Lestrange had never been the object of Sturgis Podmore’s attention. It was enough to give him chills. 

The Slytherin sprang to his feet, knees ramming painfully into the desk. “I’m fine,” he rasped, stumbling over even his words, and even as crimson droplets began to spatter on the tabletop. He pressed his uninjured hand to the gash, pointedly avoiding the sight of the thin scarlet line. Seeing his own blood harrowed him. 

“You’re bleeding,” Sturgis stated. _Yes, obviously, you utter_ — “Is Professor—” 

“He’s gone,” the girl headed him off. She was hovering at the door, gaze fixed on Lestrange with a very different emotion than she had shown Podmore. “He can go to the hospital wing.” There was cold precision in those words, a tone rare from a Gryffindor. “Come on, Sturg, weren’t you going to ask me something?” 

The blond idled for a moment, looking as pensive as a confunded troll. “I’ll catch up with you,” he resolved at last, with the air of having made a critical decision. The girl huffed, and left; Sturgis and Rab were alone. Oddly, Rabastan’s heart was beating very fast in his chest. It had nothing to do with the cut in his hand. 

“I can heal it.” 

Rabastan yanked his hand away, holding it against his chest. Blood splattered on the stone floor. “No,” he choked, yet to recover his usually Ciceronian articulation, “way.” He would sooner appoint the oaf Hagrid Minister for Magic than let _Podmore_ , who had as much magic in him as a rubber duck, heal him. 

“Come on, won’t hurt,” Sturgis coaxed, looking surprised at the other’s resistance. He drew his wand from his pocket, and Rab flinched farther back. He couldn’t let himself forget that Podmore was a Gryffindor, and thus prone to pranking Slytherins in the most painful manner possible at every given opportunity. In fact, how had Rabastan managed to deceive himself, even for a second, into thinking that the boy before him was anything more than a cruel, dim-witted _man-whore_? 

“I’d rather not end up inside-out, like that poor porcupine you practiced Transfiguration on last week, thanks.” There, finally, was his typical brand of sarcasm, even if he still couldn’t look Podmore in the eye. Silence fell for a moment; all that could be heard were tramping footfalls overhead and Lestrange’s labored breathing. 

“I can do it,” Podmore spoke at last, voice much smaller than usual, considering he usually shouted at whatever volume would garner the most attention. “Mum taught me. She works at St. Mungo’s.” 

Rabastan bit his lip. He should have gone straight to the hospital wing— for all his talents, even he wasn’t confident with healing magic. And what were the chances Sturgis was? About the same as Snape scoring Lily Evans, he supposed. But Merlin did his hand ache… And it looked like someone had exsanguinated a pig over his desk. 

“Fine,” he snapped, more forcefully than he had intended. By degrees, he proffered his bloody palm to Podmore, only taking the fingers of his other hand away from the wound when Sturgis’ wand was pointed above it. He lidded his eyes, expecting to feel a sharp jolt of pain and hear the thump of his disembodied hand hitting the table at any moment. 

Instead, Rab felt a pleasant warmth bathe his hand, as if it were under a heat lamp, Podmore murmuring a charm under his breath. Tentatively, he lifted his eyelids. The torn flesh of his palm was resealing itself neatly. 

“There. Good as new.” By instinct, the Slytherin glanced up, and found Sturgis smiling back at him. The whiteness of those straight teeth reminded him of the unicorn the Lestranges kept in their stables. He quickly looked back down at his hand, searching for a mark, a reminder of his carelessness. 

“Shouldn’t scar, it wasn’t deep,” Sturgis pronounced sagely. Without warning, Podmore ran his thumb over the healed flesh. Rab’s mouth fell slightly open, muscles suddenly tense. 

If anyone saw a _half-blood_ touching him… Rabastan could not afford any more rumors, nor the interrogations from his _dearly beloved_ elder brother that would inevitably follow. He cleared his throat and withdrew his hand, which slipped innately into his pocket. “Thanks.” 

“It’s nothing,” Podmore said brightly. “Hey, don’t forget to clean up the mess.” With a flick of his wand, the Gryffindor banished the bloodstains from the desk and floor. Rabastan’s eyebrow arched; hardly anyone in his family knew cleaning spells. Then again, half-bloods weren’t likely to own elves, were they? 

“It’s Lestrange, right?” _Merlin, Sturgis was_ still _talking to him._

“Rabastan.” How quickly his eloquence deserted him; all it took was one bloody look from Podmore. Hell, even the blond’s voice was enough to give him shivers. 

“Kind of a mouthful,” Podmore chuckled, tossing a few locks out of his eyes. “Will Rab work?” 

“That’s what I usually go by, yes,” Lestrange answered, knowing how forced and artificial it sounded. He had dreamt of talking to Podmore, but now that it was actually happening, he had no idea what to say, how to be funny, how to leave any mark on the other’s mind. 

To be fair, those dreams had usually not involved much _talking_. 

The awkward pause was broken by the second bell. Their next class had begun. 

“Shit, I’d better go,” Podmore said, wheeling around to pluck his schoolbag from his desk. Rabastan pulled the strap of his own over his head, hanging on to every breath the other took. Sturgis strode to the door, then glanced over his shoulder. “See you around, Rab. And be more careful next time.” 

And he was gone. Rabastan quickly gathered himself, stalking into the corridor at top speed as he formulated an excuse for Professor Binns… The injury would suffice, seeing as he had the blood-stained robes to prove it. 

Well, maybe Severus had a chance after all, Rab reflected with a smile as he left the dungeons. And maybe, just maybe, he did too.


End file.
